


軽油 - Keiyu

by YogurtTime



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Blood and Violence, Bottom Ryan Bergara, Car Sex, Future Kinks added as chapters are published, Gun Violence, Japan, M/M, Multi, Organized Crime, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 13:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16954806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YogurtTime/pseuds/YogurtTime
Summary: Four years in Japan, a former eikaiwa employee Shane has lived a dishonest cycle of stolen cars, falsified passports, roaring engines, and greasy, undulating pistons. One mistake has him at the other end of a gun barrel belonging to an eccentric man named Andrew Ilnyckyj. Paid hits, escape plans, and the rise of a deadly war in the streets of Tokyo all filter over Shane's quest to find his place in the world of a hitman named Ryan.





	軽油 - Keiyu

**Author's Note:**

> I want to dedicate this project to two very special people who I used to write side by side with. One changed the face of my creative self permanently and the other inspired so much of my best work and the both of you drove me to write the most I've ever written in one sitting. We once worked on a piece of this size and while we never did get to complete what we imagined that piece to be, I want to hope that if either of you two ever find your way back around even just to lurk, you'll be happy with something like this because it's inspired so much by the both of you.

 

 

_Ryan_

 

A maze of cars stretched out long; just gleaming metal running in technicolor shapes toward the horizon. Ryan’s view was bathed in the orange-shaded violet of the sunset, and for the first time in years, he noticed how the fountains of _Wadabori Gyoen_ sparkled in the background. All around him sedans glittered under the ripe sunlight; he shut his eyes against it, feeling an oncoming nausea.

His boots kicked up dust along a very bright path of glinting cars and he flinched against the sudden panicked burst of fear crawling along the already crumbling walls of his mind. A nightmare possibility flashed through his mind like an intrusive shaky video tape lost in a charred attic.

He stopped in front of a white car, taking a terribly long breath as he looked at his phone, considering the title in his contacts, top of his ‘Recents’. Of course it still read ‘Driver’. Why hadn’t he changed it?

The snuffling sigh that greeted him on the other end was steady, still drifting in from the edge of a dream, and it made the tension in Ryan’s shoulders drop, relax in spite of himself.

 

“ _Mm…Hey_.”

 

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

 

" _Where’d you go?_ "

He ran a hand over his face. "I was just... stepping out." He paused, grimacing at the implication. They didn't say anything else for a while; he climbed into the car and sat there, letting it-- and the even breathing on the phone-- shelter him from the sickly cold morning air. He heard a sleepy mumble and managed a laughing, "What?" until he could catch the end of it. He chewed on the inside of his lower lip, tasting blood.

"-- _come back._ "

He leaned back in the driver’s seat and groaned, pain and toxin in the muscles of his chest. There was a long pause, and he held on for desperate seconds, gripping the phone so hard the rounded edges were starting to hurt.

He didn’t want to hang up. He didn’t want to hang up.

"...I gotta go though."

Slowly he reached out, pressed into the ignition. As the engine thrummed to life, he leaned back, letting the wide and lost scope of what he’d done to get here. In this terrible now.

Three. Two months. One month...

It was September--

 

_Shane_

 

 

He sat very still, staring at his phone placed on the floor. On the TV, a movie was on mute with a True Crime podcast playing on his phone. _Darknet Diaries_ droning on a new episode he had to keep scrolling back because he kept missing parts. As the clock struck eight, he picked it up again--barely a second before it rang.

A voice was already speaking, flat and dispassionate, sounding a tad too much like a pre-recorded message. It said: "-- _You don't need to know his plan. I give you a time and a place. I don't care what you do, which route you take, you have a thirty-minute window. Do whatever it takes you to deliver him to his destination_."

Going onto four years living in Japan and a map of downtown Roppongi was spread out on the old tatami floor, with dozens of routes marked in-- paths he was familiar with right down to the underground maze of walkways, and those eighty-seven different exits of Shinjuku-- left to his own devices on a trip, he would never get lost.

But he wasn't exactly planning a trip.

" _One last thing_ ," The voice continued. " _Never call this number_."

He was planning a getaway.

“Oh sure,” he murmured, nerves making him sound like he’d just been invited to the movies.

The click on the other end sounded embarrassed for him.

Slipping the folded map into his chest pocket, he took one last look at the room; a strange desire to make sure the stove wasn’t on; as if he’d been cooking. _Wild_.

Shane turned off the light, and locked the door behind him.

It was a warm September...

 

 

*

 

As far as Shane could be aware, he was just dirt poor and looking for a place to crawl into when the day and its disappointments had run their course. He’d found this rundown building with its tiny beat-up aluminum stairs he had to duck his head to step up after passing many bombastic looking signs--some neon lighted, some spray painted on the walls-- reading "WATCH YOUR STEP", "OVER CAPACITY" and "NOT OPEN". There was a bar on the second floor that only opened on weekends and holidays, and an under-construction vintage store if you ventured even higher.

His little home was beneath the stairs down a scary, worn out wooden path that belonged to an alcove neighbourhood located just south of the railway-line eateries of the local train station, just west of the vibrating, colourful Shinjuku. It was a left-behind-in-time, slightly seedy bedroom community and it made Shane feel like an absolute loon when he’d step down the darkened, narrow crooks and alleys of it.

It was cheap _. Mi casa et su_ natural disaster zone. Ten times a day the Marunouchi line barrelled by above the building, and the windows and floor would shake with a rumbling, screeching sound. You know, _that_ kind of cheap. It got him this flat just slightly larger than the bathroom of a local motel, painted over green like the property manager had bread mold sitting in the cycles of his imagination trying to design the worst possible place to live. It came with a cheap round TV set, a working bathroom, a mini fridge that groaned out in every silence, a mattress-- clean, but it smelled like cheap detergent-- and one small cupboard with a couple cups of soon-to-be expired ramen..

Shane hadn't been in Tokyo that long when it happened. He'd barely just settled into that god-awful, wonderful flat. He was sort of in between jobs, had been for long enough that saying so sounded funny. It was kind of hard to commit to putting on a suit and sitting in front of a panel so he could bumble his way through a language he was just getting a knack for. You got in for wanting to teach English but sooner or later, they weed you out and maybe your work visa expires, maybe you like the country, maybe you have a system.

So what though? Man cannot live by bread--or English teaching as it were-- alone. He had _had_ to develop a system.

It was late in the afternoon, the sun nearly gone when Shane ducked out from beneath the stairs above his door and strode out of the alleyway.

He let his feet carry him where they willed as he took in the flash of car paint, whites, blues. Shiny reds. No. Nothing too flashy, too easily missed. There was a fine line between trash and treasure, though, and Shane wanted to make the most money for the least effort.

Finally, parked at a corner, she sat gleaming in the sunset. A sleek silver Impala, classic. Shane pulled his jacket collar up, shrugging casually as he scanned for witnesses. No one around, and when he tried the handle it was unlocked.

 _Baller_.

Shane slid into the driver's seat and pulled a cordless drill from his jacket pocket. A quick couple of whirls into the keyhole and then he switched the drill for his key (just a flathead screwdriver, nothing too fancy) and with a practiced jimmy, he had what he needed. Soon enough her engine was rumbling, right as rain as if he’d actually had the key. He pulled away from the curb smoothly, taking as many side streets and alleys as he could. Needed to be discreet and all. The chop shop was in _Sanchome_ and he was early enough to beat the rush. Shane could almost feel the cash in his pocket. Maybe he’d stop by a 7/11 and have an actual meal. A pizza. Something.

He'd been fumbling with the radio, searching for something catchy-- he was getting to like the _Oricon_ charts and the bridge of something familiar was playing on a station so he just didn't register the sound of it at first.

The feeling wasn’t easy to miss though. A cold hard pistol cocked right behind the shell of his ear and Shane’s eyes swiped up to his rearview mirror.

" _What_ do you think you're doing?"

Shane’s passenger looked at him impassively. His milky green eyes were incongruous next to the handgun and his coarse words in English. “I said, _what. The fuck. Do you think you’re doing_?”

Shane swallowed, eyes darting back to the road ahead of them. “Hey, I don’t want any trouble.” He was panicking; didn’t know what he was saying. “Just...uh...here on business.”

“Yeah? Whose business? Who do you work for?” His passenger pressed the barrel of the gun against his skull. Shane needed to think fast, get things back under control.

It wasn’t ideal, and it would cost him his paycheck, but he had to do it. Instead of answering, Shane turned the wheel as sharply as he could, hitting the handbrake so the car would swivel on its back wheels and his assailant would be thrown back into the seat. The car tires squealed, and his passenger swore on impact, and the last thing Shane saw was a large public mailbox getting intimately acquainted with the grill of the car.

 

*

 

Clutching the duffel bag he had been given, Shane headed down to the car park, his hand gripping the strap, palm damp with sweat. The unfamiliar key dangled between his fingers, and he sucked in a lung full of fresh air. It was nothing strange, he told himself; a job like any other job. Even back in Schaumburg when he wasn’t stealing cars, he had been driving cars for a good part of his life, sitting behind wheels because his long legs had reached the brake pedals sooner than the others. He had driven robbers, dealers, those mad ones that stuck their heads out in the back to shoot at people. All kinds of crooks. And he had walked out okay.

He strode through the dimly lit car park, hearing his own footsteps make impatient, nervous echoes in the air. A young couple emerged from their car, giggling against each other. Lowering his eyes, Shane made his way toward a sleek, nineteen-seventy Corolla, swiftly checking its plate before sliding in, and throwing the bag in the backseat.

The engine ignited, groaned to life. Shane smiled. He loved this sound. This was real. This was what he knew.

He’d paired his phone on the car radio’s bluetooth so he could still hear the podcast episode. Some horrific first hand take of organ thieves. He was only half-listening, focusing on the road instead. He drove past a brightly lit row of takoyaki stands near a run-down garage with a pink neon billboard, cruising past a chain of shabby electronics stores.

He glanced at his watch. It was nine fifty.

Shane steered into a side street.

 

*

 

It was a disparate feeling, the wash of ice cold water from his shoulders to his head in the last dregs of unconsciousness. Cheek pressed to a velvety carpet he couldn’t see, he jumped, barely lucid; his muscles screamed as he choked, and his lungs protested with each cough of icy water that slid back down his throat in rivulets.

As his surroundings swooped in with a series of sharp, vertigo sensations, Shane realised he was blindfolded; that there was rope bound around his calves in a long wind reaching to his ankles with his wrists knotted severely behind him, and judging from his position, he had been knocked sideways and had collapsed on his face to take the pressure off his shoulder. He was definitely awake then, feeling very drenched and _very_ cold.

Distracting him from these facts had come a sudden breeze of the richly intoxicating smell of gasoline. It seeped into his already shaken nerve-endings, making his own shivers go very still. The scent was this hot toxicity under a husky note, earthy like leather. Shane tried valiantly to adjust to the tightly bound blindfold when he twisted his head toward the scent just as the tip of a heavy boot nudged his jaw.

"Christ, couldn't you have just tazed him awake?" a voice from somewhere behind him said in English; familiar enough that Shane instantly remembered the man in the backseat with the gun, the impact of the crash and all the lights going out as the dashboard flew up at him. He groaned, trying to feel the knot at his wrists just as another wave of that cloying scent broke right near him. He twisted again, almost drawn in its direction as another voice joined the first.

"Shit, that would have been good.”

“You always make such a mess,” said the first voice. “I’m getting tired of replacing this carpet...”

"You like that I leave an impression." Second voice chuckled. “Besides you’re always picking the _worst_ patterns...”

“ _Really_ not the point I’m driving at here.”

“Sure, sure,” dismissed the second voice, coming closer to Shane. The scent wasn’t coming from either of the two men probably standing over him and it was starting to drive him mental wondering what it was. He was inhaling it in the calmest breaths he could naturally manage.

A sigh. And a completely different voice, as husky as the scent of leather coming from his direction, mumbled suddenly, “Steven, I think I’m gonna go for the day.”

“Doesn’t seem scared enough. We’ve got to get this one talking, Andrew,” the second voice muttered, and then louder; distracted. “Ryan, if you need to crash in the upstairs room, you may.”

“Nah, he’ll talk,” the first voice responded, seemingly unmindful of the other exchange occurring .”They _always_ talk.”

Shane tried to straighten as the owner of the second voice drew near enough, fingers pulling at the fabric of the blindfold, dragging it roughly out of the way. The light was too bright, and everything hurt. The tip of the boot began digging at his cheek, tilting his head up. He rolled onto his back over his curled fingers, finally escaping the insistent nudging; he had to see.

It was love at first sight.

 _Ok_. Well, it was more like a _glimpse_ , really. Just this quick, jolting vision of the contoured and curving line of his back in a low collared black shirt stretched like a second skin over those shoulders. He was just then pulling a leather jacket over one arm, stretching his arms up to accent sinuous, provocative hips hugged by a low-riding pair of dark blue jeans. Right before he slipped the jacket on, Shane saw his black scorpion tattoo inked in stark relief on the back of his neck. Something in the way it was drawn-- like it was lovingly slipping its stinger down his golden-brown neck right into the back of his t-shirt--had Shane swallowing something like hot lead.

Shane wondered if this was what artists felt like when inspiration struck. This invasive sense that he’d come to the start of an unerring task; a feeling of ‘Move! Now!’ like his very bones were angry with his muscles; like the end of a search that only a small wistful part of him, buried deep inside, understood.

“It’s fine,” he was replying to the owner of the first voice; no glances back as he walked out of the room, barely swinging the door shut behind him in a listless movement.

Shane, wrapped up in the epiphany of what he’d just seen and what it was doing to him, didn’t quite take in his kidnappers’ presence until the owner of the first voice spoke in an impatient tone.

“Steven, watching you two is giving me diabetes. Are you going to tell him what happened to Brent?”

Shane reluctantly pulled his still dazed stare from the door and looked up at the one called Steven watching the door.

It held his attention for a barely a moment before he looked at the man who’d put a gun to his head. The one they said was Andrew looked rather like none of this-- the conversation, the very idea presented to him, and even Shane lying tied up and shivering at his feet-- would ever infuse his features with anything more than moderate feeling even as he waited for the man watching the door to react.

“What do you care anyway,” Steven muttered. “You and Brent didn’t get along either.”

“I’m just the boss,” Andrew returned in a tone that brooked no argument. “I don’t _care_.”

As he finished this remark, Andrew’s gaze dropped from Steven and fell on Shane, filling with an abrupt intent as he folded his hands behind his back and began to pace a slow circle around him.

As Shane kept a trained stare-- now much more aware of his predicament-- on Andrew’s slow considering movement around his prostrate form, from somewhere behind him, he heard the sharp sound of metal being scraped slowly over stone.

 

*

 

The podcast was already winding to an end by the time Shane pulled over by an obscure corner in San-chome. A fenced warehouse stood coldly under the glowing yellow street lamps two blocks over; he could see the various warning signs of _Keep out_ , _Beware of dogs_ scattered across the fence. From inside the warehouse, a lone light bulb shone through the tiny window. The whole building was tucked under shadows, making it impossible to know what was going on inside.

The street was deserted, save for an echoing barking of a dog, seemingly coming from somewhere far away. Shane turned up the volume of the radio slightly, and from under the seat, he dug out a small scanner. He'd only had a few chances to use it before. In the past, he was more daring, stealing the tires from police cars and hiding behind a nearby dumpster to snicker at them.

It took him a few tries, but eventually he got the right frequency, and the cracked signal of police dispatches joined the cadence of the podcast hosts in the background.

As if on cue from inside the warehouse, an alarm shrilled, high-pitched and piercing. Shane lifted his head from the back of the seat and scrambled to turn on his stopwatch. Systematically, he went through the routes in his head. Counting the intersections; right turns; left turns; crossing out the streets... He had thirty minutes. He wasn't sure what would happen to him if he couldn't make it; didn't dare to think of it.

He took a deep breath, putting his hands on the steering wheel, and found his thoughts wandering to a dark room, a too bright light and bruised knuckles pressing his jaw open. He remembered a deep, candid voice talking about pulling his nails out, and-- and that husky scent of gasoline, reminding him of summer days spent in a scrapyard back in Schaumburg, pulling apart cars, hiding inside the hot, suffocating trunks because nobody was looking for him; starting to pound on the hood _because_ nobody was looking for him.

And when he would lie very still and close his eyes against the slivers of light, he felt like he was drowning in the darkness and the deep, breathless scent of motor oil. He felt safe.

He found himself thinking about the man that smelled like broken engines, the lines of his back and the tail of a scorpion lodged deep in Shane's mind, at first like a smudge on a white page-- until it started growing into a vicious animal all on its own, scrambling back and forth like it was itching to leap into reality in any moment.

He took his next breath, slow and steady, savoring the memory of the scent, imprinted on the frontal lobe of his brain. Gasoline; gasoline, and that metallic tang of blood.

The podcast’s outro music played.

A full gust of Autumn air rushed in as the passenger door swung open. Someone slipped in, turning his head to glance fretfully for any pursuers, and Shane could see it; the scorpion's pincers inked on the skin of his nape. Shane's heart came to a sudden stop.

And then, he twisted around to look at Shane.

It felt like peering through a hole on a door, knowing full well someone was there behind it, but it threw him off because he wasn't sure if he was looking in-- or out. Those pupils were glittering, opaque and bottomless, left Shane feeling hot and shuddering from their sharp-edged vulnerability.

It was a surge of odd thrill starting in his stomach, arching up inside his throat and then it pulled at the corners of his mouth; he was an idiot just sitting there grinning.. Those eyes regarded him in a silent query, the corner of that mouth bent into a confused curve. In the back of his mind, he was aware that he was speaking-- mouthing something at him, frantic and incredulous from the way his lips were rapidly, _expressively_ forming words, but Shane wasn't listening.

He couldn't catch the second before a rough hand grabbed at his shoulder and jolted him right to the present, in the car, shadows of people--armed people--and their footfalls not far off.

" _Drive_ , you dumbass!!" His passenger all but hollered at him as he stared, dazed. The obvious urgency slowly came to him in the form of growing noises-- dogs barking and footsteps approaching from behind them, angry words shouting in the distant shadows.

The wheels screeched off to the podcasts listing their sponsors, and a furious gunshot ringing through the air.

 

*

 

Andrew looked at him properly for the first time, taking in the general presentation that was Shane. He seemed impassive enough that it was both unassuming and cold all at once.

Shane should have expected it when the shriek of metal on stone ceased suddenly. It still put him in a sickening state of vertigo when the back of his collar stretched like someone was grabbing a handful of his shirt; His whole body was yanked back, ropes digging into every sinew as he was dropped upright into a chair and it clattered back against him until he felt whiplash jerk his neck.

He felt trapped in a flinch, unable to move as the chair settled backward and Shane shut his eyes as the swinging lamp from above him glared a furious blindness just as a silhouette rose over him. Now looming above him was a shadow of spikes that did little but hold him at this awful angle and press a frighteningly warm metal blade right under his jaw.

“So,” Andrew began, making his circle around the back of the chair, examining his watch. “I have a lot to get done today; let’s make this quick.”

It took a second before Shane realised Andrew was speaking to him exclusively. Nothing to the shadow leaning over him then because it was entirely possible that this monster had his own pace for violence.

“Listen,” Shane started to say, being extra careful not to move because every swallow had the knife digging right in a delicate strip of skin. “If I had had any idea you were in there, I wouldn’t have stolen your car.”

Something about this made Andrew’s expression twist with an abrupt distaste. “You _ruined_ my Impala, interrupted a well-earned break, and worst of all, you’ve completely upended my schedule,” he informed Shane tersely. “Who are you working for?”

Shane risked a swallow. “Nobody. I’m sorta free--” the knife flattened on his jugular and shifted up his throat in a really abrupt and terrifying arc towards his chin. “-- _free-lance_...”

Andrew began his pacing again, his voice the only indicator of where he was in the room. “A liar,” he mused with a surprisingly easy smile for someone whose eyes seemed to hold only the faintest flicker of humanity. “All right, we can deal with a liar. Steven likes liars, you see. He says they-- ah, what was it you said again?”

The shadow above Shane finally spoke and he sounded as bored as he had in the beginning. “For every lie, I counteract with some truth,” he explained in laconic tones. “For example...”

There Shane felt the metal object draw away, raised up in front of his eyes. “A dull knife, such as this butter spreader? Well, it’s more dangerous than a sharp one. It requires more force to cut, and thus increases the chances of--”

A hand with soft fingers grabbed at his chin pressing deep ‘til it hurt and his mouth fell open. The knife was lowered and slid up his lip and the tip of it pressed a threatening edge against the bottom ridge of his gum near his first lower molar.

“-- _losing control_.”

It was difficult to speak with his mouth being held open like that but Shane managed an approximation of, “ _I... not LYINGUH_!”

“What?” said Andrew, coming around to look at him again.

His jaw was let go. “I said I’m not lying. I literally just steal cars and pawn them off! Your car was randomly selected! Luck of the draw? Well, it’s not luck since--”

Andrew’s mouth curved further down and he stepped away, running a quick hand through his hair with some frustration. “Ah, I don’t have time for this idiot.”

His jaw was seized again, this time with more violence. “Got a hot date or something?” the voice hovering above Shane queried in exaggeratedly interested tones.

Andrew turned his head distractedly and he made no reaction to the question. “Take care of him while I go make some calls, would you? Thanks to your unfortunate decision last week I’ve had to call around three times for a replacement and now I’ve got several people on hold and I _know_ none of them can drive for shit.”

Not a single beat passed when those words struck and Shane shook his jaw out of the other man’s grip to exclaim, “ _I_ can drive for shit!”

Andrew stopped in his tracks to the door, turning back once more. “Excuse me?”

It was quick-thinking and somewhat panicked. Shane was desperate all the same. “You need a good driver?” He could still see the knife in his peripheral vision and there was little guarantee that its owner wasn’t planning to use it to ‘take care of him’ as soon as they were alone. “Because I can drive!”

Andrew mouth twisted into that old exasperated distaste. “No. You _really_ can’t,” he said in a low, forbidding tone. “My car was wrapped _around_ a public mailbox; there was _mail_ in the debris. _Other_ people’s mail! I was charged for defacement of public property and I’m facing a _fine_ of one point five million yen!”

Shane felt bad. He really did, but his goddamn pride made him shrug and say, “If I were a bad driver, you’d be dead.”

The front legs of his chair slammed to the ground and the hands once holding him backward were now grabbing at Andrew’s arms when he attempted to make a sudden wild descent on Shane. He had almost expected the one called Steven to be bigger. He was surprisingly slimmer and softer looking than Andrew with what looked like intentionally messy pale grey hair and a single white bandage strip across his cheek right under his left eye. The smirk on his face seemed directed at Andrew as he made several soothing sounds, backing him towards the sectional sofa opposite Shane.

Andrew took a deep breath as he settled into the chair, shutting his eyes in a quiet seething expression.

“That wasn’t a threat, man; I swear,” Shane said, talking quickly, hearing the pitched notes of his voice and the fear in it but unable to stop it. “I just...let’s say I owe you for the wreck. Let’s say I work for you instead?”

Andrew opened his eyes as the other man withdrew, still watching him with an unmistakably amused gaze.

Andrew looked over at Shane, now much more collected. “How long have you been driving?” he asked shortly.

Shane glanced carefully at the one with the knife before answering. “Since I was thirteen.”

Andrew’s gaze snapped to full attention. “Thirteen? Wha...” He glanced at Steven thoughtfully before he began again. “How are you at directions? What are you, American?”

Shane shrugged as best as he could with his whole upper half in ropes. “I’ve been living in the country for four years. Not gonna lie, I just moved to Tokyo, but I learn quick. I already know the fastest route to get around Kabukicho to Sanya.”

Andrew looked vaguely intrigued, but he squinted. “Two obvious places in Tokyo any random crook would need to memorise. Ohh… kay? On the other hand, if you’re jacking cars in _my_ territory, I would have heard of you.” Andrew got to his feet and crossed the room to a table by the window where a binder lay open on a table. “Your name?” he demanded.

Shane craned his neck to get a peek but all he could make out was really miniature inked script. “I just go by Shane now.”

A speculative silence followed his reply before Andrew slowly tore his eyes away and looked down at his book, flipping over a page. “Right,” he said. “Well, I bet your criminal record says Shane Alexander Madej, doesn’t it?”

Shane blinked at him, startled silent. Who was this guy? There was no way. He was off the radar here; he had figuratively got on a plane back to Schaumburg-- he’d used a falsifier for his IDs…

He watched Andrew pick up the binder, scanning the page in front of him. “Well, you’ve been busy, haven’t you? Says here you worked at an _eikaiwa_ for just six months, then you got picked up for possession and resisting arrest? It says you were meant to be put on a plane straight back to the states, but you paid out eight hundred thousand yen for false documents-- I’m gonna assume you stole and gutted someone’s car to get that money?”

Shane stared at him. “Was that--do you want me to answer or…?”

Andrew flipped a few pages over, ignoring him. “Auto theft… auto theft,” he muttered, running a finger down a list. “...Ah, I don’t have specs on _this_ particular name, and it is a ridiculous one-- does the name Banjo McClintock ring any bells?”

Shane never felt such a huge draining of blood from his chest all at once.

Andrew’s smile spilt like an unexpected bright wave, and he looked young. Almost too young for the clean fold of his expensive suit lapels and the border pattern of his even more expensive-looking tie. “Struck paydirt, haven’t I? Well, my sources say that ol’ Banjo’s documented signature is a tidy crime scene and drill holes in both the dashboard and the outer door handles. It seems I _have_ heard of you. Just over a month ago, you led a two-hour high-speed car chase after a minor traffic infraction.”

Shane swallowed; he was fucked. If Andrew got even a single notion to turn him in... “My tail light was out,” he mumbled. “I got stopped. The car was stolen and it was a drug dealer’s car...” He leaned forward as best he could, desperate, hoping against hope that somehow Andrew might feel a little sympathy. “Look...uh, Andrew? Please don’t call the cops on me. I’ll pay for your car. Eventually.”

Andrew’s eyebrows shot up and he shut the binder in a finalising gesture. “Well, at least I can rest at ease knowing you’re simply a fool with a history.” He nodded at Steven faintly and Shane couldn’t assemble the right words to beg for his life as Steven strode toward him.

He wasn’t aware that most of his body had gone quite numb with the constriction of the ropes until they fell away when Steven unknotted them with a sharp tug.

Andrew stepped right up to him as the feeling in Shane’s arms returned.

“And at least I know you can get out of a sticky situation when you’re lean and hungry and that’s what I need,” he said and then with a deliberately cold detachment, he held out his hand, oddly smooth and delicate. “I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, that’s for sure.”

Still a little weak-limbed and shaky, Shane hesitantly raised his hand, letting Andrew grasp it in a firm squeeze that was as terse as he was. Shane squeezed back, aware of the renewed excitement beginning to outweigh the insidious spark of fear that getting involved with real criminals entailed. “Am I... hired?” he asked slowly.

Andrew’s lips pulled up in an alarmingly benevolent smile. “Of course; the repairs and fines will be coming out of your first few pay cheques to settle your debt,” he returned as he released Shane’s hand.

A little bit stunned at the carefully restrained murderous intent emanating in the strength of that handshake, Shane could only manage something very close to a squeak.

Andrew’s smile faded, composed as ever. “Just keep in mind that what just happened is the _only_ reason you’re still alive.”

 

*

 

So Shane drove. He was a driver now, hands white-knuckled against the wheel as the static broke through the scanner's broadcast. The scent of gasoline and blood was almost overwhelming when a thin cloying cigarette smoke joined it.

He thundered past the pedestrian bridge toward the boulevard before easing his foot off the gas, slowing down to a steady speed. Feeling the other's eyes on him for a brief second, he flashed him a reassuring grin. "Wouldn't want to spook the cops," he said. His passenger didn't pay him anymore attention; instead turned to stare out at the buildings speeding away from them, eyes squinting from the exotic smoke. His right hand shook slightly as it smoothed a line on his jeans-clad thigh, absentmindedly wiping away something under his nails.

"You're Ryan, right?" Shane glanced over at his passenger as he made a left turn. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that his hands and the front of his shirt were covered with red. Was he bleeding?

"Yeah." Ryan looked at him for the barest of moments, eyes showing mild interest. "How'd you know?"

"Overheard it from Andrew." Shane cut his eyes back to the streets ahead as he considered his next turn. "And his scary friend Steven..."

An incredulous burst of laughter broke across the ravine between them, and Shane gripped the wheel a bit harder. “ _Scary_? Oh my god…”

Shane refocused his attention on his task. Twenty minutes left. Shane slowed, a crackle of the scanner warning him of a patrol in the area, and he recalculated the quickest way to the bridge he’d been instructed to go to.

Daring a quick glance at Ryan, he swerved left-- away from the Southern Terrace-- just as his scanner cracked a broken dispatch.

"-- _Suspects heading South, yellow Mustang_ \--"

Up ahead of them, the lights of downtown Sanchome lit up a corner of the sky, glittered against the shadows of quiet neighbourhoods. Shane switched off the headlights as he weaved in and out of the darkened alleyways.

It was like catching a glimpse of a shark's fin. A police car glided past at the end of the alleyway ahead of them, its lights also off. Instinctively, Shane tapped the brake, letting his car slide to a stop. He stayed there for a moment, letting the black-and-white pass before easing the Corolla into the same direction.

It was a high-risk play, but Shane knew other patrols wouldn't check out the same route. So he followed at a distance, hidden in the dark. The police car made a turn, unaware it was being shadowed. Slowly, they entered Takashimaya Square.

The passing headlights lit up Shane's view. Another squad car. He envisioned the map, checking out each possible turn. The two cars passed each other slowly, and Shane could see the policeman peering at him through the window. He chewed on his lower lip, watching the squad car head past them.

"-- _Unit one-eight-eight. Spotted an old Corolla heading South. Two passengers. Couldn't make out her license plate_ \--"

"-- _Unit one-eight-eight, why don't you check her out_ \--"

As soon as the words crackled out of the scanner, Shane swerved sharply into the next street. He gunned his way through the traffic, smooth and effortless. A police car in the opposite direction spotted him, but was unable to turn around and give chase as the flow of traffic caught it in. He pushed his car as fast as it could go and, spotting the looming terraced parking lot ahead, he made an abrupt turn into the entrance, punching the ticket quickly before gunning the car down the slope.

On his left, Ryan was already taking off his seatbelt.

They screeched from one level to the next until a free lot came into view, and Shane pulled over. He got out of the car just as Ryan dug out a jacket from the duffel bag and threw it over his head. Together, they walked up another level before Shane pulled Ryan to a friendly-looking, nondescript _hakosuka_. He was starting to think Andrew might have a thing for old vehicles.

They climbed into the car and Shane immediately paired his phone to the system, hitting play on a new episode of the podcast at a whisper. As he floored the gas, speeding straight ahead into the traffic, he could feel Ryan's eyes studying him from the passenger seat, the dying cigarette burning dangerously near where it met his knuckles. A veil of smoke blurred the lines of his cheekbones and then shredded its way out of the car as Shane cruised down a deserted street.

“Holy shit! Dude, Is that _Darknet Diaries_?” asked Ryan in sudden English, the first enthusiastic tones to breach their terse uncomfortable silence.

Shane exhaled hotly. He was zeroed in on the cars pursuing them. “Yeah, it’s my favourite. It’s a little upsetting to some--”

“Yeah, the last driver just hated--”

It was like someone shutting a window, cutting off Ryan’s quick, excited words. Shane glanced over. Ryan was looking down at his hands, as if suddenly aware of the flecks of dried blood along his fingers, a deep frown creased his features and his dark eyes shut like he had a headache. Shane couldn’t bring himself to pry.

A sedate right turn, and then two more lefts, and the bridge was in sight. No word of any police in the area either, thanks to the scanner, and Shane felt a little less uneasy. He’d live to finish this task, it seemed, and Shane pulled off of the main street and onto the gravel leading under the bridge.

The underpass was filled with weeds, dirty mattresses and turned over shopping carts. Shane pulled up, barely killing the engine before Ryan was opening his door. “Open the trunk,” he said shortly and Shane pulled the key out of the ignition. He stepped out while Ryan made a beeline for the boot. He got it open and stepped back to let Ryan rifle under a white cloth tarp, unearthing a lumpy duffle bag.

 He watched silently as Ryan pulled his blood-stained shirt over his head. In the faint moonlight Shane could make out the lines of Ryan’s back, and the stark blackness of the scorpion crawling its way along Ryan’s spine.

Shane caught himself working really hard not to pursue the notion of his fingers playing along the ink and skin trailing down Ryan’s neck. It wasn’t OK to do that. They didn’t know each other; he didn’t even really know why he’d just had to pull like three moves he hadn’t had to in years.

“You coming?” Sadly, Ryan had finished changing clothes. He sounded impatient, a little more alive than he had earlier.

“Uh, right,” Shane mumbled, all but stumbling back toward the car as Ryan threw his leather jacket over his shoulder, doing up his belt. He had a distinctive walk, like he had a chip on his shoulder over everything in sight and he was about to give it back ten times. Shane definitely liked that.

He wanted to at least breach conversation with Ryan again quickly while he had this newly adopted ardour to him for a night on the town or something. He seemed quick and changeable too. Shane was just utterly fixed on the concept of being there to see this guy light up, like really make him laugh. He knew probably not to bring up True Crime podcasts given the way he clammed up.

He had been about to slide behind the wheel when he spotted Ryan off in a thought once he’d opened his door. He was chewing his lower lip, looking out at the blazes of city light far off like he was considering an aspect of it, sizing it up like the bottom of a cliff.

Shane watched him from across the stretch of the roof. Ryan’s eyes were bright-- not with any sort of cheer-- but an odd strain of energy; the type Shane often saw in people just about to raise hell. “Where d’you wanna go?” he called, aware of the way he’d just poked in on Ryan’s secret thought, feeling a little unapologetic thrill at it.

He looked over at Shane, stare becoming clear and present. A half-smile quirked his lips up as he looked away and slid into the passenger side. Shane followed suit, literally unable to tear his eyes off of Ryan like he was just a bit worried that he’d take off. Something about him seemed fleeting and it imbued Shane with an uncontrollably possessive drive.

Ryan paid this no mind as he shut his door, slid down in his seat, and threw his legs quickly up the dashboard, boots pressed to the windshield. He opened his mouth to speak, but Shane couldn’t wait.

“Because, you know. We could go to this bar near my street; grab a couple rounds and you...” He couldn’t help smiling, delirious as Ryan raised his eyebrows at him. “...you could tell me all about yourself.”

A squint and an odd moue that was a mixture of bewilderment and pleasure. “What, like a date?”

That shot a firework of giddiness right through his middle. Shane knew he was done for. “Like a date?” he echoed, laughing and losing himself in it while Ryan leaned his head back against his window, looking at Shane under lashes like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “I mean, sure. If you want?”

“Nah.”

Ryan dropped the word like he was laying down a hand in poker, stare still fixed a little decisively on Shane. It was a narrow stare, looking at Shane like he was the city; a challenge, a daredevil task or a flame he was gearing up to swallow.

“I don’t want that,” he added silkily.

At the moment Shane couldn’t work out why he felt every hair on his head stand on end.

“Lean your seat back.” Ryan looked like he fully expected Shane to do it with no complaint, and he did.

It felt like the reality cue of what Ryan was getting at became clearest the moment he was angled on his back. It felt ultimately very business-like within the space of a second it took him to adjust his seat and Shane tried to look as placating as he could manage. “I don’t understand. You just said--?”

Ryan didn’t blink; he regarded Shane with a renewed impatience. “I don’t like to dance around; whatever you were looking for when you asked me out. For a _date_.” He said the word like it must have been embarrassing for Shane and was trying to alleviate the sting. “You and I both know where that was headed...so no, I don’t want that.”

The ceiling of the car was dull to look at, but Shane wasn’t sure if he could keep staring at Ryan. His eyes were almost fever-bright, and he was afraid he’d catch fire if he looked too long. A rustle to his side was the only warning he had before Ryan crowded him, one hand going for his belt. “I want this,” he murmured, grabbing him roughly. “Don’t you?”

Shane made a soft helpless sound. “Y-yeah.” He’d envisioned things progressing a little more slowly. Ryan didn’t seem interested in taking anything at all slow. His fingers tugged the leather free of the buckle and he shot a glance at Shane from an angle he clearly knew was alluring when he smiled a bit like he’d read Shane inside-out and liked every messy idea.

Shane seized the handle on the car door with one hand and grabbed the side of the passenger seat with the other as Ryan’s fingers dragged his zipper down, slipping in without a single point of hesitation. Despite the obviously abruptly chilling sight and sensation of a hand sliding over the front of his undershorts, Shane chose then to look down at Ryan now that he was no longer peering back up at him with that look like wildfire. Ryan wet his lower lip with a quick sweep of his tongue just as he curled his hand in, traced knuckles in a provoking contact over the shape of Shane through the thin cotton fabric.

Shane swore. It was that sight alone that would’ve triggered him to do what he did next, but with the way Ryan exhaled a breath at exactly the same time he’d uttered the curse, Shane dropped his hand from the door handle and fisted Ryan’s v-neck instead. One swift tug had Ryan falling into his mouth; his fingers splayed over the outline of his cock, bringing him up as Shane choked on the sudden almost-static shock contact of Ryan’s lips biting over his.

It was clear to Shane that in Ryan’s mind; he wanted something quick and easy and Shane kept finding himself only just sinking into one moment as soon as the next was ready to begin. It started a struggle all of a sudden and Shane didn’t realise it until he’d twisted his fingers deeper into Ryan’s t-shirt and moved his hand from the passenger seat to grip a determined hold on Ryan’s jaw that he noticed. He was actually _fighting_ to savour the feeling of Ryan’s mouth and it had him clutching Ryan in a way he would never have with a stranger. Altogether, it seemed to surprise Ryan-- the resistance but he rolled with it, curling up to straddle Shane, turning their breathless grapple into a new way for them to make sudden, demanding contact.

“Wait,” Shane was breathing over his lips, completely overcome and shutting his eyes; he was thinking helplessly that this would be over too soon. “Slow down,” he begged.

Ryan bit Shane’s lower lip and leaned in as Shane closed his own over Ryan’s quickly. “I just watched you handle a wheel like a surgeon. I know you like it fast,” he remarked slyly, letting Shane nuzzle down his throat.

That one gave Shane goosebumps to the point where he couldn’t even put his mind back together to formulate a reply in more than just a helpless sound.

Ryan’s hand began to move over him and Shane kept his hold on Ryan, thumb tracing the line of his chin, opening his mouth just enough. He was almost tart with nicotine, hot breaths and an underlying strain of sharp copper and Shane kissed him deeper to keep regaining that taste, trying not to go dead to it as he pulled Ryan closer.

One rough squeeze had Shane gasping out of Ryan's mouth, just long enough for Ryan to pull away and tug at his own belt. Shane watched, speechless as Ryan worked his jeans down his hips. A few more moments and Ryan had shimmied right out of them.

While Ryan leaned back and dug in his pocket for lubricant and a condom, Shane stared at the pale golden expanse of his thighs and lower abdomen, marred only by a few symmetrical scars. He ignored them because of the sinuous flex of Ryan arching back, fingers working himself open. It was a marvel, the way Ryan sprawled over him and splayed himself open, looking as if they had all the space in the world.

Still mostly focused on Ryan's flexibility, Shane yanked his undershorts down, gasping when the cool air hit him at the same time Ryan's slick hand wrapped around him, stroking him for a moment as he re-adjusted his position. Bony knees dug into Shane's side as Ryan leaned forward to bite at the base of his throat before sinking backward onto him, one hand holding himself steady.

It was a breathless minute as Ryan paused, smirking down at Shane wickedly before undulating in earnest, taking him in until his spread skin crushed against Shane’s hips, derailing any thought of allowing him to set the pace. Shane simply went with the rhythm Ryan set, rocking up against him counterpoint, their breaths turning ragged and steaming the windows.

In their silent pass of desperate minutes-- Ryan’s calves squeezed his ribs and the spark crawled up Shane’s stomach telling him he was close-- Ryan arched back, rolling his spine so he was stretched out backward. The position had him planting one hand on the window and the other to the dashboard. He was spread, flushed and gasping as he moved faster. Shane had to grip his hips the next second so as to not lose the angle pulling him something vicious.

It was suffocating and the rush of it had his mind spinning the next second. Ryan’s skin under his hands was like a razing electrical fire as he rocked from his hips, sucking in his lower lip with the effort. They were silent except for caught breaths and the hinges of the car seat under them, but Shane couldn’t tear his eyes away from how utterly _bold_ Ryan looked then; fringe plastered to his temples, lips kissed out flushed and the way he tossed his head back at one point, fully branded in the moment. Even when he could barely breathe with the pace, Shane wanted this skin to skin contact forever.

Shane heard his own caught up moan as his head struck the back of the seat and his whole body arched from his back. Ryan made a husky croon of encouragement and that nearly did him in before he was scratching blunt lines down Ryan’s hip with one hand, fingers coming center and closing on Ryan’s cock tightly. Ryan wound his hips harder, clenching his teeth and Shane watched the impact of the sensation ripple up the soft muscle of Ryan’s stomach. Shane gasped an off-note as it climbed him in one fluid explosion of perfection.

“Come in me,” Ryan demanded at the tailend of a broken-off groan.

That did it. Shane had to bite his tongue when the cascade came on too strong, shook him inside out and everything to his fingertips went paralysing numb while Ryan rocked at a quick, sharp pace, getting himself off. Shane was still squeezing him when he came, letting Ryan press through his fingers until he’d broken his rhythm.

Ryan shuddered and cut off a helpless sob by stretching forward on Shane. His cold, small hand fell from the window pane to the curve of Shane’s neck with a sudden possessive squeeze as he streaked across Shane’s stomach in abrupt bursts, gasping out not-words and hot breaths close to his collarbone.

Shane only remembered to breathe out when Ryan’s grip over his throat loosened. His lungs protested the sudden flood of oxygen as Ryan went limp over him then, melting right against his skin like he didn’t mind that Shane was still a stranger. Shane’s hand was still a mess between them but he was distracted as he’d just begun to think of the black lines of Ryan’s scorpion; of what it’d feel like under his fingers...

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ryan swore, dragging it out as he pushed himself upright, hands on either side of Shane’s head. His still fevered gaze ran right up Shane, taking in a post-disaster with a lazy, irreprehensible smile. Shane, still hot and out of breath, returned the smile, loving the way Ryan’s mouth curled and hoping he’d get another go at it; take his time hopefully.

Ryan seemed to watch Shane’s smile form right before his eyes dropped abruptly. He grabbed for his duffel bag and tossed Shane a travel-pack of wet wipes, taking two sheets to himself. By the time Shane was done scraping up the mess and doing up his own jeans, Ryan was slouched in the passenger seat, tilting it back while he opened the window.

The silence was unbearable and Shane had a million things he wanted to say; so many questions, most of them revolving around the idea of going to grab a bite to eat or really just _anything_ so long as Ryan was in the same room.

Shane twisted, hands on the wheel, to speak. “So wh--”

“You can just drop me off at Roppongi-crossing,” Ryan announced, cutting across him with an odd sort of levelled determination.

It sucked the wind completely out of his sails for a dim moment and Shane said nothing anymore as he gunned the engine, doing a meaningless sweep around before three-point turning back onto the freeway.

The drive back to the city felt like silence amplified. Shane still felt a sense of his afterglow a little marred by the fact that he was simply unable to abide Ryan utterly shutting down on him like that. He didn't spare anymore glances at Ryan, at least until the other tapped his arm.

"Here. Let me out here."

Shane slowed to a stop, out of the way of what traffic there was, and tried again. “Would you wan--”

“Thanks.”

Ryan grabbed his bag and slammed the door shut, slinging it over his shoulder as he sauntered towards the crosswalk. Shane waited for him to turn around, not sure why he expected him to, but waiting all the same.

The traffic raced past the yellow light blooming as a crowd of pedestrians crossed from the right. If he looked hard enough, he could almost make out the lines of the scorpion on his neck. As Ryan hiked the bag higher on his shoulder and walked on-- letting business suits, dresses, and a mass of colour swallow him-- Shane’s gaze followed, picking him out in the wave of heads and faces disappearing under the glaring neon of Roppongi. Further and further, Shane gazed into a sea of people until he was simply staring at a single spot that used to have Ryan in it.

It was ridiculous. He was supposed to have left; he was supposed to be discreet about this but Shane kept watching, and for every stolen minute he spent, he bitterly wished he had ditched the car and just followed him.

Shane squeezed the leather of the steering wheel until it creaked before he eased into traffic again.

He kept right on thinking of Ryan as he left him at the intersection. He had never before really considered ever feeling such terrible euphoria over someone he barely knew. That full-blown moment in the car _couldn’t_ have just been nothing; not so insignificant to merit the way Ryan didn’t look at him afterward.

Later as Shane sat in his flat, the train passed through, rattling what little possessions he had while the podcast episode chattered on. He couldn’t make out the words for the thoughts racing through his mind.

Sprawling back on his mattress, Shane stared up at the ceiling. He’d never noticed how stained it was.

Everything was changed. This morning the only thing he’d had on his mind was a target and a payout. He’d come close, yet even after completing his job, he realised he had never felt so lost in his life. He’d left his flat mere hours ago-- though it felt like days-- with the life he considered to be ‘before Ryan’; just a fast-paced mess of concerns that no longer mattered. There was that before where he’d see something he could take and took it simple as that. Today, he had taken everything Ryan offered and he was as empty-handed as when he’d left.

He’d touched only the edges and shapes in the dark that created someone like Ryan, and he had felt quite sure at the time that Ryan must’ve seen something in _him_. What did Ryan see when he’d looked at Shane even before he’d climbed on top of him? He couldn’t even say that he knew enough about him to hazard a guess. He didn’t even know if he’d get to see Ryan again...

He envisioned over and over the image Ryan made sitting beside him; how he had the bearing of an open book, but kept shutting everything so tight like Shane was some sort of threat and that wasn’t fair. Ryan didn’t know him.

It was like a blind epiphany as it rolled over him and Shane sat up again, staring off at the wall across from him. It was circumstantial; just three hours together, how could he expect anything more than that. Their time was too fleeting and the truth _was_ that Ryan just _didn’t_ know him yet. That was the problem: circumstance that didn’t allow the right questions, didn’t allow Ryan a window to even _want_ to know about him. If he were given another chance-- whatever fate liked itself to be-- Shane was convinced it was just a matter of time.

He mouthed the words, picturing the moment he’d look Ryan in the eye again when he said them, “Hey, my name is Shane.”


End file.
